The Last Laugh
by FFcrazy15
Summary: The MASHers are at it again! As a prank war rages through the camp, revenge is sweet and laughter is sweeter. Who will get the last laugh? Told mostly from Fr. Mulcahy's perspective (of course!), but all the main characters (as of season 10) make an appearance. F*L*O*C*K 4077 piece.


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended. I got the scriptures from (you guessed it!) the Bible, which I also do not own the rights to nor profit off of.

**M*A*S*H**

**(Mulcahy)**

There are times as a camp chaplain when I begin to despair a little for my flock. As can be imagined, in an army unit full of young men so far from home and quite pretty nurses (yes, I'll admit it), there can be quite a bit… well, I don't want to sound crude, but there can be quite a bit of debauchery and licentiousness. I enjoy the company of B.J. Hunnicutt and Col. Potter, both who like myself are unavailable to the young ladies here, and have a soft spot for Klinger (who I'm fairly certain is a practicing Catholic despite his claims otherwise, seeing as he's the only person in the unit who regularly comes to confession and goes to Mass), but oftentimes I'm witness to a, shall we say, _moral looseness_ which at times borders on the embarrassing.

That being said, can Heaven really fault me for using every inch of opportunity I'm given to try to lower the amount of promiscuity in the camp? Somehow, I feel the Good Lord will be pretty lenient on me come Judgment Day over my little escapades here. Still, this latest has me feeling a little guilty. Perhaps I should explain…

It all started last week, when Colonel Potter asked me to help him convince Klinger to sell his pet goat, which had recently consumed numerous important documents- once by accident, once with a little persuasion.

"Now see here, Klinger," the doctor said, standing up from his desk. "That goat has caused enough trouble around here as it is! It's time for it to go!"

"But sir!" the Lebanese corporal objected. "Think of all the possibilities! Goat milk, goat cheese-"

"Goat pucky, Klinger! Now I'm sure there are plenty of farmer families around here that would love to have a goat of their own; why don't you give it to one of them?"

"Ah, I would love to, sir," Klinger said. "But you know, I did _pay_ for this goat."

"It would be a very charitable act, Klinger," I pointed out.

"I know that, Father, but the thing is, this goat is worse off than when it came in. I think she ate something that must have made her sick, and now she's just a bag of bones; what person in their right mind would want a skinny goat?"

"What person would want a goat, _period?"_ the Colonel muttered under his breath.

"Now hold on, Colonel, he has a point," I mused. "Why don't you give him a week to get the goat back to its original condition, and then we give it to one of the locals? I'm sure they'd be very pleased."

Potter bit his tongue, thinking it over. Klinger clasped his hands and gave him his best 'pleading puppy' eyes.

"Alright," the Colonel sighed. "But I'm warning you, if that goat causes any more trouble…"

"Oh, thank you, sir! I promise it will be no problem at all! I'll go put her out by Sophie and she won't cause any more trouble, sir." He ran out of the office.

Col. Potter slumped back against his chair and sighed. "Oy vey."

"Indeed," I chuckled.

As I walked outside, heading for my tent, I saw Klinger trying to pull the particularly stubborn goat over to Sophie's coral. The sight made me grin. I was so busy watching that I accidentally bumped into someone.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Hawkeye," I said, stepping back. The taller man was carrying a bucket of some sort. "What's that?"

"Oh, I'm, uh, just bringing some stuff to the cook," he said, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

"I know that look," I said sternly. "What are you planning, Hawkeye? What's in that bucket?" I tried to reach over and open the cover, but he quickly dodged my advance.

"Uh-uh-uh!" he said in a hushed, slightly sing-song tone. "You'll scare them!"

"Hawkeye!"

"I'll see you at lunch, Father!" He winked and hurried off.

I watched him go, and then shrugged and walked back to my tent. As I pulled out my homily notebook, I realized that he'd mentioned he was bringing 'stuff' to the _cook._ I pondered it for a moment, and then shook my head. "No. I don't even want to know."

**M*A*S*H**

The mess tent was crowded that day during lunch. I got in line behind B.J., who was holding a tray and a bowl.

"Hey, Father," he greeted me. "Aren't you going to get something to eat?"

"No," I said, eyeing the food warily. "No, I thought today would be a good idea to do some fasting."

"Here you go, Captain Hunnicutt," Igor said, ladling a large helping of soup into the bowl. I wrinkled my nose unintentionally; the mess tent's famous "cook's choice" soup was by far one of the most disgusting so-called "vitals" to be served in our mess, yet ironically enough, B.J. Hunnicutt found it delicious. He alone among the 4077th company ever got servings of it; the rest of us just choked down the stale bread and spam that came with and got on with the day.

As we sat down, Hawkeye let out an audible, "Ugh. You think that once or twice they'd serve something good, just by accident."

"I don't know what you guys are talking about; this is the most edible thing I've found since I came to Korea," B.J. said, picking up his spoon.

"Yeah, well, _bon appétit,"_ the darker-haired surgeon groused. B.J. grinned and tucked in.

A moment later, he choked and spat out the soup. Hawkeye burst out laughing, and I realized- much to late- that the soup was obviously connected to the bucket he'd been carrying earlier. A minnow flopped around on the table, and upon peering into the broth I realized I could see one or two more little fish swimming happily amongst the meat and vegetable pieces.

"You- you-" B.J. slammed his spoon down, furious. "You fiend!"

"You should've seen your face!" Hawkeye said between gasps, as the rest of the table started laughing, too, myself included.

B.J. glared at me. "You!" he snapped.

"Me? What'd I do?"

"You knew, didn't you?! That's why you didn't get any food!"

I bit back my laughter, but I couldn't help but grin. "I knew he'd done something to the lunch, but I honestly had no idea he put f-f-fish in the s-" I started laughing again, unable to finish.

"I'll get you for this," B.J. promised Hawkeye with a glare. "You'll see! And the rest of you had better watch your backs, too!" He stalked out.

Hawkeye slapped the table, still laughing, and waved to Igor. "Mission accomplished!" he yelled. Igor grinned.

"You're in real trouble now, Hawkeye," I commented with a chuckle, taking a drink of my powdered milk.

"Naw," the doctor said confidently. "He knows if he does that, he's beginning a battle with the Master."

"Then he'll go after someone else to get you back," I reasoned.

The lunch table had gone silent. A moment later, I realized what I'd said. "Good Lord."

"Amen," Margaret said, but even she couldn't help but smile evilly. A prank war was afoot.

**M*A*S*H**

"ARRRGH!"

I started from my sleep and just about fell out of my bed. The screaming continued, and I scrambled to the door, turning on my lights as I peered outside.

Around the compound, other tents did the same, illuminating a figure as he ran past. Charles Winchester, clad only in a blue towel, banged on the Swamp screen door. "HUNNICUTT!" he roared, furious. "OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR THIS VERY INSTANT!"

"Sorry, Charles, no can do!" a much too cheerful voice said, and I caught sight of a grinning face through the tent mesh. A moment later, I realized what had happened.

Dr. Winchester appeared to be covered in some sort of dark, sticky fluid. For a moment I thought it was blood, before I realized it was-

"Chocolate syrup!" Charles screamed angrily. "You rigged the shower to spray _ch-choclate syrup!"_

"And you look quite delicious too, I might add," Hawkeye chortled from inside.

"You- You- You're supposed to be getting back at _him!"_

"But you're so much more fun!" B.J. commented. "Come on people, who would you rather see covered in chocolate syrup, Hawkeye or Charles?"

Exclamations of "Charles!" and "Dr. Winchester!" rang out around the compound, and the good doctor suddenly realized he was being watched.

"But- I-" He stammered for a few seconds, before he managed to get out, "D-Don't you people have something better to do?"

A chorus of "No!"s rang out. Taking pity on the man, I grabbed my bathrobe off the hook beside my door and ran out to him. He glared around at the other spectators (who were by now laughing their tail ends off) as he- _ahem-_ made himself decent. "I'll get you back for this! All of you! You will live to rue this day!"

"Hey, Charles!" Margaret called from her tent. "Smile!"

I dove out of the way just as she snapped the picture. As Charles spluttered and fumed at her, she took the polaroid picture out and waved it in the light. "Oh, there it comes!" she cooed. "Charles, you look just wonderful; the syrup really does wonders for your hair!"

"Or lack thereof!" someone else yelled.

Having no other option, Charles stalked off to the shower tent. Unable to resist one more quip (Lord, save me from my pride), I called out, "Have that cleaned, please!"

In response, he yelled back an obscenity that did not make him look very dignified at all and slammed the door shut, as the rest of the compound gave him a round of applause.

**M*A*S*H**

Breakfast the next morning was nothing short of exciting. Whispers filled the tent as Charles walked in, a scowl on his face. He got his food, and stomped over to the table and dropped my striped bathrobe down on the wood with a _plop!_ "There," he grumped. "Cleaned and pressed."

I lifted up a cup. "Coffee?"

"No thank you," he said shortly, as he sat down and glared across the table at Margaret. "I demand you return that picture to me immediately!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't," she said nonchalantly. "I've already sent it in to the Stars and Stripes."

"You did _what?!"_ he demanded, standing up.

"Charles, she was joking," Hawkeye said, rolling his eyes. "Come on, have a seat."

"Why, so you can stick a whoopee cushion under me?"

"Well, if the toot fits…"

"I've had enough practical jokes to last me a lifetime!" he snapped, stepping over the table. "I think I'll eat my breakfast alone, thank you very much!"

We watched him leave, and I took a drink from my coffee mug. "You'd better be careful, Margaret," I commented. "He seemed pretty angry."

"Oh, what's he going to do, bore me to death?" she said, rolling her eyes. "The old fuddy-duddy couldn't pull a practical joke if he tried."

I bit my lip and didn't answer. Sometimes it's best to let these things work themselves out.

**M*A*S*H**

"Charles Emerson Winchester!"

Everyone in Post-Op turned, surprised. Margaret slammed the door shut behind her as we all gawked. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

"What," she demanded, fuming, as she pointed to her hair, "is the meaning of _this?!"_

Margaret's hair was… blue. Not all of it, mind; just the top, where her part was. Charles looked over from where he was filling out a clipboard. "Oh, Margaret," he said, acting only mildly surprised. "That's a lovely color on you; it really brings out your eyes."

"You brute!" she shrieked at him. "You changed my peroxide with- with _blue dye!"_

"Well to be fair, Margaret, if you weren't snitching peroxide from the supply closet to bleach your hair, this wouldn't have happened," Hawkeye pointed out.

"You shut up!" she snapped. "Where did this dye even come from?! It had better not be permanent!"

"Calm, my dear," the doctor said mildly, apparently not afraid of the woman. "I simply had Klinger requisition a bottle, top-priority. And it's quite temporary."

She glared at him. "You swine."

"Are we even?"

Margaret ground her teeth, but apparently knew better than to start a one-on-one with the doctor. "Alright, we're even. But Klinger and I _aren't."_ She pounded her hand against her fist. "That Lebanese _pig_ is going to get it, mark my words!" She stormed out.

The rest of the ward gave a smattering of applause. Charles took a quick bow and went back about his work. I hesitated, and then walked over to him. "That dye _was_ temporary, right?" I said, a little worried.

"Oh, certainly," he said, writing down a number. "It should wash out within… oh, I'd say a week."

Hawkeye started laughing. "Charles, you are one genius, genius man."

"I know," the Bostonian agreed with a smug smile.

**M*A*S*H**

"Alright, Padre, I'll see what I can do about getting you more Sacramental Wine."

"Thank you, Colonel," I said gratefully. "I have enough for- oh, I'd say another two Sundays, but that's about it."

"Present and reporting for duty, sir!" Klinger said, walking into the office.

I eyed his ensemble with mixed annoyance and appreciation. While Klinger had given up cross-dressing some time ago, he still made a bid for freedom every now and then, using his acquired sewing skills to make himself appear as insane as possible. Today, he was in a white full-body suit, which appeared to have-

"Klinger, is that _goat_ _fur_ on that suit?!" the colonel demanded.

"Yes, sir! I'm proud to say I have the finest coat in the region, sir, and I'm here to request you enter me in the Uijeongbu goat contest!" He caught sight of the papers on the man's desk. "Oh, those look delicious! Do you mind?" He took a blank requisition paper and bit into it. I watched in shock as he chewed and swallowed it. "Mm, zesty with just a hint of typewriter ink. _Baaa!_"

"That's it," Potter growled. "I've had enough of your shenanigans, Klinger! You want that section eight, you got it!"

"You mean it, sir?" the corporal said, delighted.

"You bet your furry behind I do! I don't have time for this sort of hootenanny in my unit!" He picked up the phone and rang a number of dials. Klinger watched, enthralled, as he said, "Hello, ICOR?"

"This is ICOR speaking," a feminine voice with a New York accent replied.

"Hey, where's Chimichanga?" Klinger demanded, leaning in.

"Who?"

"Chimi- His name's Jamison, Lt. Jamison. He always answers the phone."

"Lt. Jamison's out right now; my name's Sheryl. How can I help you?"

"Sheryl, I want to request an immediate Section Eight!" Potter snapped. "Bypass any red tape that you can; I want this man out of my camp!"

"Why do you think he qualifies for a Section Eight?" Sheryl said. I heard a popping sound, as if she were chewing bubblegum.

"He thinks he's a goat!"

There was a pause. "Come again?" Sheryl said.

"I SAID HE THINKS HE'S A GOAT! HE JUST ATE MY REQUISITION FORM!" Potter roared.

"Alright, sir, I'll have a jeep down by noon. We'll take care of all the paperwork. Have a good day." The line went dead.

Klinger let out a whoop. "I'm free! I'M FREE!" He danced around. "Colonel, I could kiss you!"

"GET YOUR FURRY REAR END OUT OF MY OFFICE!" the man shouted. "NOW!"

Klinger jumped a little, but he was still grinning. "Thank you, sir! And may I just say:-" He took a deep breath. "-_Baaa!"_

He turned on his heels and walked out the door, nearly bumping into Margaret. "Klinger, I was just going to ask if you could place a call to- Good God, what are you wearing?"

_"Baaa!"_ the corporal said again, before kissing her full on the mouth and skipping out of the room.

I looked back at the colonel, frowning. "Sir, don't you think you're being a bit unf-" I stopped as the man started to grin. Slowly, it dawned on me, and I looked back between him and Margaret. "There is no jeep coming, is there?"

Margaret made a sound like she was popping a piece of gum. "Sorry, honey," she said, faking the New York accent with a grin.

I smiled, and then chuckled, and then started to full-out laugh. "Major, that was incredibly cruel… and incredibly clever."

"That'll teach him to mess with my peroxide," she said with a satisfied smile. "Thank you, Colonel; I never could have done it without you."

"No trouble, Margaret, no trouble at all," he said, chuckling. "I do feel a little bad, though… but not bad enough to tell him."

I laughed and left. Klinger would figure out that he'd been tricked soon enough; in the meantime, there was a poor shaved goat somewhere who deserved an apology.

**M*A*S*H**

"I'll kill you two," Klinger grumbled sourly, slumping over his dinner. "That was _so_ unfair."

"Oh, like dying my hair blue was?" Margaret quipped.

"That was funny."

"Speaking from experience, so was this," Potter said with a smile. "Oh, don't look so glum, son; you're still in the same place you were before."

"Exactly! That's what so depressing! I'm still stuck in Korea!" He waved his fork at the colonel. "May a thousand curses be on you and your family!"

"Klinger," I warned.

"Sorry, Father." He stood up. "I'm going to go feed my goat. At least she respects me."

"After that impromptu haircut you gave her? Not a chance!" B.J. said, laughing. Klinger made a face at him and stalked out.

As the others continued eating, Col. Potter leaned in. "Padre, I hope I'm not being a bother," he said in a low voice, "And call me superstitious, but I don't take things like curses lightly, not even when they're meant in joke."

"Neither do I."

"Is there anything you can do? Just in case."

I nodded and murmured a few words in blessing, making the Sign of the Cross over him. "It's done."

Some time later, the three Swamp men invited all the rest of us over to their tent for a game of poker. As we all stood, I said, "What about Klinger?"

"Hey, if he wants to join, he can come," B.J. said with a shrug. "Tell you what, Father; you go get him and we'll deal you in."

"No peeking at my cards," I warned. "Remember, 'False weights and unequal measures, the Lord detests double standards of every kind.'"

"And thou shalt looseth every poker hand by which thy cheateth," Hawkeye improvised. I rolled my eyes good naturedly and headed off in search of Klinger.

He wasn't by Sophie's coral, so I checked the office. Sure enough, he was on the phone. I waited politely until he noticed me and said, "Hold on, Sparky." He covered the end of the phone. "Yeah?"

"We were wondering if you'd like to play poker with us?"

"Sorry, Father; I've got work to do. Maybe tomorrow, huh?"

"Alright, I'll tell them." I gave him a quick smile and left.

As the door shut behind me, I heard him say, "No, it can't be black or brown, it has to be something bright." There was a pause. "Purple? Yeah, purple would be fantastic."

Frowning slightly, I walked away. What kind of work did Klinger have to do which was so important he'd give up a game of poker?

I pondered this to myself for a moment, and then shrugged. I wasn't about to get in the middle of this prank war.

**M*A*S*H**

I grimaced as I stirred my oatmeal. Hawkeye, who was sitting beside me, echoed my unspoken sentiments. "This is ridiculous. They should be calling this oat soup, not oatmeal."

"Don't even mention soup," B.J. said, looking a little queasy.

"My own horse eats better than me," Potter grumbled. "Speaking of which, I think I'll go feed her now; maybe I can steal a handful of _real_ oats from her."

"I'll come along with," I volunteered, standing up. "I'm afraid I've quite lost my appetite."

We dumped our trays into the trash can outside and headed off in direction of the coral. "It's a sad day when a man has to sneak food from his own horse," Potter grumbled. "I'm going to get Klinger on that; maybe ICOR can switch some forms around and 'accidentally' send us whatever those folks up at the top are ge-"

We both stopped in our tracks and just stared, shocked. "Oh my God," I said, the first to speak.

Standing next to the newly shaved goat was a very annoyed, very _purple_ Sophie.

Col. Potter took off running and jogged up to the horse. "What in the hell-?!" He looked around, as if he was going to demand an explanation from the empty tents.

"Er, sir?" I said, hesitantly walking forward. "I may know who's responsible for this."

"So do I," the colonel said, voice trembling with barely controlled rage. He whirled around and roared, _"KLINGER!"_

People came pouring out of the mess and the showers. For many seconds, they just stared and pointed at the purple horse, before the snickering and giggling started. The colonel was a dangerous-looking beet red; I quickly took a few steps back, wondering if the man was about to blow his top.

"And that-" said a voice from inside Sophie's little stall, "Is what I call a horse of a different color."

My mouth dropped open as Klinger stepped out, dressed from head to ruby-clad toe in a blue-and-white checked dress, complete with a basket and- _God help us-_ a little black toy dog.

Col. Potter really did lose it then, chasing after the man shouting curses I previously had never heard and some I'm pretty sure he just made up. As he ran, Klinger called back, "Maybe next time you'll remember that there's no place like home!"

Eventually, Potter's age got the best of them, and he leaned over, panting, as Klinger ran away. "I'll get you, Klinger!" he yelled, shaking his fist. "AND YOUR LITTLE DOG, TOO!"

He turned to the crowds, who were laughing and clapping. "Alright, folks, you all have jobs to do; get to 'em," he said grumpily. After a few more comments and laughs, everyone dispersed. I watched Col. Potter go up to Sophie, who let out a distressed whinny. "Aw, I'm sorry, girl," he said, patting her violet hide. "Don't worry, I'll have someone out to clean you up posthaste."

"You know, this practical joke war has been highly entertaining," I comment. "It's been done in real friendly spirit; I can tell it's definitely raised camp moral."

"You think so?" he said, petting Sophie's nose.

"Certainly. It's all in good humor, too." I looked over to the office. "Seeing as Klinger probably won't be returning anytime soon, perhaps I could deliver the mail today?"

"Thanks, Padre. That's real good of you."

"No trouble at all. Best of luck finding someone to- uh…" I eyed the horse, wondering if a simple washing was going to do the job. "De-color her."

"Mm," he agreed, irritated. "See you later, Padre."

"Have a good day, Colonel." I turned and left.

The mail bag was relatively light that day, so my rounds went quickly. I stopped at the Swamp last, knocking on the door. "Mail call!"

"Come in, Father," Hawkeye said. I pushed the door open. "What've you got for us?"

"Let's see… one letter from Peg, B.J." He took it eagerly, carefully opening the envelope. "One box-tape set from Honoria, Charles." I handed it to him, and then reached down to the bottom of the bag. "And…" I let out an annoyed sigh. "Three nudist magazines for Hawkeye."

"Oh, right. It's the April Showers edition," he said with a grin, taking them out of my hands.

"You know, I really do wish you'd stop subscribing to that," I said. "It's very unhealthy for you spiritually, not to mention incredibly disrespectful to those poor girls."

"Hey, don't like 'em, don't read 'em," Hawkeye said, shrugging as he opened one.

I crossed my arms. "Hawkeye." He ignored me and flipped the page, and I sighed. "Maybe I'll go pray some more."

"He needs all the praying he can get," B.J. agreed, and then chuckled over something Peg had written.

I walked out, feeling like I hadn't done enough. I looked up at the sky. "Lord, all I'm asking for is an opportunity," I commented. "That, and maybe a little more…" I struggled to find the right word. "Hutzpah," I finished lamely, before I let out a little sigh and headed for my tent. Hey, I never claimed to be an Aquinas.

**M*A*S*H**

**(3****rd**** Person)**

"Alright, folks," Col. Potter said, leaning against the table. "I think you all know why I've called you here tonight."

"No, actually, I don't," Hawkeye commented, yawning. "Why in the world did you come wake us all up at midnight?"

"So we have time to work this out. Now hear me out," the colonel said, looking around at each of them in the face. "This is a nice little pranking spree we've been having lately, all done in good fun- although I'm still not happy about you painting my horse magenta," he said, glaring at Klinger.

The Lebanese man shrugged. "What can I say? Inspiration is inspiration; who am I to deny it?"

"No Pablo Picasso, that's for sure," Potter grunted. "But in any case, there is one among our little band who has yet to get got."

Hawkeye shrank back a little at that, nervous, but before he could object, Potter said, "Now obviously, I mean Fr. Mulcahy."

"Colonel, is that really necessary?" Margaret asked (the roots of her hair still a vibrant sky blue). "After all, he hasn't done anything to any of us."

"Horse pooey. Now I know he hasn't done anything per say, but he did get to see us all look like downright fools, and we haven't gotten to see the same of him. I say it's not a game 'til everyone plays; besides, you know he'll take it in good humor. Now are you folks in or out?"

As they looked around the table, each started to smile. "He would find it funny," Margaret agreed, chuckling.

"Yeah, we can't leave Father out," Klinger said with a grin.

"Yeah, it'd be downright mean to shut him out like that," B.J. said, adopting a faux-noble character.

"We need something good, something really good," Hawkeye said, pondering. "This can't be just any run-of-the-mill prank."

"Perhaps something to do with religion?" Charles suggested.

"We've got to be careful there," B.J. said. "It's a good idea, but we have to make sure it isn't sacrilegious or anything; if it was, he'd never- well, he'd probably forgive us, but he sure wouldn't be happy about it."

"We want this to all be in fun," Potter agreed. "Any ideas?"

There was a long pause, and then Hawkeye snapped his fingers. "I've got it," he said with a grin. "But if we want it to work, we'll have to act fast…"

**M*A*S*H**

**(Mulcahy)**

"Fr. Mulcahy. Fr. Mulcahy, wake up."

I looked up and groaned. "Hawkeye? It's-" I checked my clock. "Good Lord, it's almost seven! Why didn't my alarm go off?"

"Father, this is important," another voice said. I squinted and put my glasses on.

"B.J.? What's going on? Is someone hurt?"

"No, but we, uh, we've got some people who'd really like to meet you."

"Well-" I scrambled to get out of bed. "Give me ten minutes to do Lauds prayer and then I'll meet you-?"

"In the mess. Hurry!"

I raced through my morning prayers and hurriedly put on my bathrobe and slippers, running over to the mess.

The moment I opened the door, I heard someone say in a Korean accent, _"There_ he is."

Two sets of hands grabbed be my the shoulders and dragged me over to a chair. A Korean lady dressed in what appeared to be pretty upscale clothing pursed her lips. "This is what they expect me to work with? Looks like we've got our work cut out for us today ladies." The other girls, all Korean and all dressed just as sharply as the first, giggled.

"What-" I started, but she cut me off.

"Hair miserably unkempt; ugh, get _rid_ of those glasses-"

"Hey!" I snapped, as one of the women removed my glasses. I squinted through the blurry imaging, trying to figure out where they'd gone, but the head woman- whoever she was- was still talking to me.

"-And who in the world shows up to a beauty appointment in his bathrobe?"

"Beauty- what?" I tried to stand up, but was quickly pushed back down again. "Why would I need a beauty appointment?"

The woman studied me and then smiled, patting my cheek. "Sometimes we all need a little help, Joe. But don't worry, we can work with this." She winked at me. "You're going to make some young lady very happy tonight!"

I choked. "A young- I beg your pardon?"

"You're Captain John Mulcahy, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course, but-"

"And did you or did you not call Madame Ahn's Male Beautician Services to prepare you for your date this evening?"

Suddenly, it dawned on my what had happened. I looked over to the door, where Hawkeye and B.J., not to mention the rest of the senior staff, were howling with laughter. Scowling, I stood up and grabbed my glasses back. "Madame, I believe you must be mistaken," I said shortly. "You see, I am a Catholic _priest."_

She stared at me for a long moment, and then said, "Oh, Honey, then you _really_ need help."

Her beauticians pushed me back into the chair and went to work despite my attempted protests and explanations. Ten minutes later, I managed to fend them off and paid them their fee ("Plus tip" they'd cried) to leave me alone. By now positively livid, I put my glasses back on and stalked out of the mess to where those- those _stinkers _were now nearly dying of laughter.

"You think this is really funny, don't you?" I said, crossing my arms.

"No, I think it's hilarious, bordering on hysterical," Hawkeye spoke up, in between guffaws.

"And I suppose you were the mastermind behind this plan?"

"Mastermind? Father, you're too kind," he said, taking a bow.

"This isn't over," I warned, before stomping off towards my tent.

Behind me, I heard Col. Potter say, "You'd better watch your back, Hawkeye."

"Oh, what's he going to do, Colonel? Preach me to death?"

Though I had half a mind to turn around and tell him what he could do with my preaching, I managed to restrain myself. "Now, John, remember that revenge is for the Lord alone," I told myself. Then, I paused, "But on the other hand… 'If anyone is caught in any transgression, then you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness…'" I grinned. "And failing that, well-placed irony."

**M*A*S*H**

"WHAT THE HELL?!"

I raised an eyebrow looked around at the others at the breakfast table the following morning, namely Klinger, Margaret, and Col. Potter. Margaret's grin began to grow. "He sounds angry."

"Oh, I would believe so," I commented mildly.

"Padre, what did you do?" Potter asked, looking mildly worried. I merely smiled in satisfaction and took a sip of my coffee.

The doors to the mess burst open as Hawkeye flew into the room, a laughing B.J. and Charles in tow. "What," he said, eyes blazing with anger, "Did you do to my magazines?"

I blinked, pretending to be mildly surprised. "Which magazines?"

"My- my-!" He glared around and then lowered his voice. "My nudist magazines. What did you do with them?"

"Oh, those," I said, then paused to take another drink, just to annoy him. "I'm terribly sorry, Hawkeye, but we ran out of garbage to feed Klinger's goat, and you were the only one who had any left."

"Garbage! Those weren't garbage, those were works of-" He stopped as it dawned on him. "No. You wouldn't."

"You know, you're right. Stealing is wrong," I agreed, and fished five dollars out of my pocket. "Here, now they're paid for."

He stared at the money in my hand, and then turned on his heels and ran out of the mess tent. I got to my feet and hurried after him, not wanting to miss the show.

The rest of the mess followed me to the coral, to where the goat was happily munching on pictures of- _ahem-_ a rather scandalous nature. Hawkeye dropped to his knees. "Have you no humanity?" he cried.

By now everyone was laughing, myself included. "I'm sorry, Hawkeye, but it went to a worthy cause."

The man let out a little moan of disbelief, and I chuckled. "Here," I said, pulling out one last magazine and handing it to B.J. "When the shock wears off, give him this."

"Why would you save one?" the doctor asked quizzically.

"Well," I said with a little shrug, "I didn't think it'd be fair to leave him with _no_ reading material."

B.J. took the magazine and opened it. Inside the glossy covers were several hand-typed pages. He read for a few seconds, and then looked up. "Father, this is Deuteronomy."

I put a finger to my lips and winked, before walking away.

And so ended the great prank war of the 4077th. Considering that nobody was permanently injured (well, save for our prides), I would say we all came out of it quite well- Klinger's goat was even fat enough to be given to a local farmer. Naturally I'm quite proud of my last laugh, but I do feel a little guilty about it; after all, stealing is a sin, even if it was done for the victim's benefit. I wouldn't mind it so much, except for that this is going to make a _ver_y interesting confession.


End file.
